


Between the Wish and the Thing

by C6H12O6 (killjoycatlady)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Childhood Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Tense, Reunions, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killjoycatlady/pseuds/C6H12O6
Summary: Kenma lives in an unimportant little village in the insignificant middle of nowhere, working for a mapmaker and tending to his book collection. He stays alone, left behind by both friends and family, and toils in resignation of his bare life, until one day he comes across an injured black cat, and the ghosts of his past begin knocking at his door.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 20
Kudos: 60
Collections: Kuroken Christmas Exchange 2020, Recommended KuroKen Fics





	Between the Wish and the Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madin456](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madin456/gifts).



> I'm posting this much later than I had intended to, but here it is: my fic for Kuroken Xmas Exchange 2020, written for @chaasiu. 
> 
> I struggled with this fic, mostly because I started my first semester of college this year and this event coincided with my finals, but I made it to the finish line. I hope you all enjoy it. There are content warnings that should be paid attention to, the broadest of which are listed in the tags- I'll post the more specific warnings in the end notes. Tiny disclaimer in that I have limited knowledge of cartography and mountain structures outside of Minecraft.
> 
> Finally a HUGE shoutout to @alinakerrin for being my emergency beta, they were amazing and a huge help.

Once upon a time, in a time when magics and spirits roamed freely the land, in an unimpressive little village somewhere around the middle of nowhere, lived a boy named Kenma.

Kenma worked as a cartographer’s apprentice, but this is not important. What is important was that while the other village boys his age gathered in empty lots to bounce around a pig’s bladder ball or eye village girls on the streets, Kenma preferred to keep to himself and his books, and had little interest in the company of others. Or rather, others had little interest in the company of him, and Kenma saw no reason to chase them and their antics.

Kenma lived in a small shack bordering the village, separated from the wilderness by several lengths of field and a woodpost fence. He appreciated the solitude (or so he said), caring for the few straggling garden herbs and attending to only his books and his thoughts. His pay was good, as he was a skilled and attentive boy, and so Kenma was left with want for nothing in life. And if he felt the sting of loneliness pass like the cycle of the moon, nobody had need to hear of it.

Of course, you will need to hear of it, because it is important in Kenma’s story. The truth is, Kenma had little in the way of companionship. With sharp, golden eyes peering out from underneath his dark hair, and a gaze that seemed to take them apart and put them back together, the other villagers were unnerved by the Kozume boy. There were whispers of him and his late parents—that they were witches from the enchanted eastern forests of the Crow King, that they were spirits in disguise lying in wait to eat the villagers and reclaim their ancestral homeland.

Kenma, as one would expect, knew of these rumours and knew of them to be untrue. But he would not approach them to beg for their acceptance, and he did not know how to explain to them that he was just a boy with no power and no parents.

Others may have seen Kenma as a strange and ominous character, and Kenma himself believed he was distant at best and openly spiteful at worst. He certainly had a sharp tongue, but the truth that Kenma would never admit, and perhaps did not know about himself, was that he had a kind, possibly even selfless streak, particularly for those who felt like outsiders, withdrawn and skittish—much like himself.

On one evening walk back from his apprenticeship, Kenma spotted what was not a common sight: a group of boys, not more than 16 in age, gathered around some poor object of their attention. Kenma would have ignored this entirely if it were not for the yowled hiss, a twisted noise that caught his attention and quickened his pulse.

The source of the cry was a black cat cowering at the ground, hair standing on end and teeth bared. Kenma approached slowly, not wanting the boys to notice his presence. As he neared, he saw that the cat was injured, and badly. Its front was matted, clumps of fur crusted with congealed blood, and it held its arm at an awkward angle, impeding its movement.

The cat flattened its ears and spat at the boys, who did nothing but laugh and crowd closer.

Kenma moved forward, his footsteps silent against the dirt road. Neither the cat nor the children had noticed him, and when Kenma said, “Excuse me”, the boys jumped and whirled around.

“Wh—oh.” The largest boy’s face contorted in a sneer. “It’s Kozume.”

“Do you need anything, Kozume-san?” said another, with a faux attempt at politeness, while his companions ribbed him and failed to conceal their laughter.

“You should give that cat some space,” Kenma said, keeping his voice as even as possible.

“What’s it to you?” said the largest boy—their ringleader, Kenma deduced.

“He’s hurt,” Kenma said, “Leave him be.”

The boys showed no signs of listening, which Kenma had predicted. He made his best attempt at a furious glare, pinning them with his stark golden gaze.

The boys appeared unnerved, and shuffled back and forth as if deciding whether to back away or not.

The ringleader moved forward, raising a fist that Kenma knew he would not be able to block, but his lackeys grabbed ahold of his shirt from behind, pausing his moment.

“Don’t! You don’t know what he’ll do to you,” they were hissing, “Haven’t you heard?”

“So?” the ringleader replied, and moved to break free of his hold.

“He’s a witch! He’ll have you for lunch,” the other boys continued to whisper.

Kenma stood his ground. These allegations were not new—frankly, Kenma was bored of them, and rather hoped that the villagers would come up with something more innovative. He glared and clenched his fists, doing his best to appear as though he was preparing for a fight rather than cowering from it.

Miraculously, it worked. The ringleader gave Kenma a furious look before stamping away, his lackeys trailing behind him. They did not stop him from shoving his shoulder against Kenma’s, sending Kenma sprawling into the dust.

Though his side ached, Kenma groaned and made to stand. He glanced around for the cat, wondering if he could care for it as it healed. He was glad to see the creature had not run off, and he crouched, beckoning it closer.

The cat blinked with heavy, yellow eyes, so slow it was almost deliberate. Kenma stood still, so as to not scare it off.

The cat lashed its tail along the ground. It gave Kenma a last glance, before darting away, disappearing into a thicket of bushes.

Kenma stared at the gnarled branches through which the cat went. It had been injured enough that it was in no state to walk, much less run at full speed into shrubbery. Surely a cat wouldn’t have needed that badly to get away from Kenma. Surely not.

Kenma picked up his things, dusted himself off, and continued his daily walk home. It seemed like a longer journey, somehow, the solitary trek back to an empty den. 

†††

Nighttime in the village was known to be safe, unless a passing troupe of bandits took an interest, which was rare. But though Kenma loved the late hours for their quietude, there was a stillness that would creep in through the windows, leaving cold fingers across his skin.

On nights when that feeling was particularly strong, Kenma unloaded extra blankets from his cupboard, creating an insulated nest in his cot. He swaddled himself in his favourite—spun from fine wool, hand-stitched by his mother when he was a child, and soft to the touch after years of use—and curled up in bed, letting the noises of night birds and swaying breeze drift over him.

Tonight, with the unease pressing at the back of his mind, dredging up long-forgotten memories, Kenma drifted off, dreams littered with the high-pitched laughter of children and black cats with lamp-like eyes.

Deep into the hours of the night, Kenma jerked awake. Kenma propped himself up, glancing out his bedroom window in search of the disturbance but not seeing anything out of the ordinary.

Then rang out a noise—a sharp cry, jagged at its edges, with the rough tones of a human voice. Kenma sat straight up, and strained his eyes, but still he saw nothing.

It had been a sound of pain, Kenma was sure of that much. A sound of distress with a thousand possible sources. An attack from a bandit? A wild animal who had made a desperate bid for food? Kenma clenched his blanket within his fists and breathed deeply to slow his beating heart, hoping he was overreacting, or that this was part of a nightmare. 

But then there was another noise. Softer, guttural, not a scream for help but a release of distress. It tugged at Kenma’s heartstrings, painfully tightening his chest. An attempt to bury himself under his blankets once again proved fruitless as Kenma’s mind wandered over scenarios, wondering who it could have been. An injured child? A waning elder? Surely someone else would have heard and answered the call.

But it was always possible they hadn’t.

Unable to settle with the uncertainty, he rose from his warm nest, heart in his throat, pausing only to shrug on a thin jacket before exiting his house.

The beaten trail leading to his front door, worn down from years of use, was clear, and there were no oddities in sight. Kenma moved to the back, keeping close to the walls, so tensely wired that he jumped when a twig snapped beneath his feet.

He crept forward, senses unnaturally aware of the frozen air surrounding him and the pulse of blood against his eardrums. Behind his house, standing where an herb garden once grew, Kenma gazed into the abyssal night.

Aside from cricket songs and breeze rustlings, there was nothing.

Kenma made to turn back, and in that moment the wind settled and it came, clear and crisp: ragged breathing, hidden in a copse of bushes.

Kenma bit his lip and mulled over the potential danger, but he had come this far, so why not follow through with his reckless bout of selflessness? Slowly, he pushed his way into the thicket, cringing as twigs and thorns caught his skin.

He bit back a gasp.

Sprawled out amongst the shrubbery was a dark figure, cloaked in black and impossible to discern from the surrounding shadows. They didn’t move as Kenma stepped closer—and Kenma had a quiet gait, but he was far too near to go unnoticed. It was then that the sharp tang of blood hit his nose, and Kenma stilled in his tracks. Closer now, he could hear shallow breaths filter through the rustle of leaves, punctuated and unsteady gasps that made his stomach curdle.

When Kenma took the next step forward, he knew he had been caught—the stranger inhaled sharply and went silent. Kenma shifted, rather awkward in a situation where he should have been terrified.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice coming out more hushed than intended. “You need a doctor.”

“Please don’t.” The stranger’s voice was raw and masculine, entirely foreign to Kenma’s ears. “I’m—”

The stranger didn’t complete the sentence and for a panicked second, Kenma thought he had fainted, or worse. He stepped closer trying to see—but the stranger jerked back into the shadows, clearly set on remaining unseen, despite his hissed curse of pain.

“I can’t leave you here,” Kenma attempted to reason, “Let me bring help.” Now what help he could scrounge up, he didn’t know, but Kenma, contrary to popular belief, was not a heartless witch, and couldn’t in good conscience leave a man to bleed out.

“ _Please—please_ ,” the man replied. Kenma had never heard a sound like this, a bare desperation so potent it sent a chill down his spine. “No one can help me, don’t call anyone. Go—go home.”

Kenma heart thumped in a strange tempo. He took half a step forward and asked, hesitantly, “Are you some sort of thief?”

The stranger made an odd gurgling noise and it took Kenma several heartbeats to identify it as laughter. It filled him with unease—Kenma could not imagine a situation less amusing.

Kenma shuffled forward, very nearly throwing caution to the wind, though not quite. If he could only get a glimpse of the stranger—get some answers so as to why he was outside in the dead of night caring for a man he might never see again—he could perhaps heed their wishes and move on in peace.

The stranger made an aborted motion to wriggle backwards, ineffective in his ailing strength. Kenma attempted to crouch, to where the light angled against the underbrush giving him just enough visibility to navigate.

Kenma froze.

The moonlight cast a silver glow over the stranger’s paling face, a reanimated ghost from Kenma’s past. He blinked slowly, pupils dilated, like a wild animal backed into a corner.

Kenma was certain that this was an elaborate hallucination or an overly realistic dream, but when he breathed, “Kuro?”, and the man flinched, pain drawn across his face, Kenma knew that this was real.

“What—” he started, before he cut himself off with a sharp intake. Kuroo watched him closely, chillingly akin to his scrutinizing look when they were kids.

Kenma took a deep breath. Whatever this was could be packed away for later; they had more pressing concerns, right then.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low though there was no one around to overhear. “How—who hurt you?”

Kuroo’s response was lost in the rustling breeze, but to Kenma, who continued to survey the visible injuries, it became increasingly clear that the explanation was unimportant. Kuroo’s clothes were slashed open, leaking rivulets of blood through the fabric and onto the grass, and Kenma was sure that Kuroo would approach near-fatal blood loss if he didn’t act soon.

“You need a doctor,” Kenma said more firmly.

The look Kuroo gave him was helpless, pleading. “No, don’t—Kenma, I shouldn’t even be here—”

“So what?” Kenma said, with more force than he had intended. “I should just let you die?” He stood, and glared down the shadowy figure on the ground. “I’m bringing help. If you can run away before I come back, go ahead.”

Kenma marched out of the thicket without waiting for an answer, and didn’t cease his momentum as he headed into town. Shivers raced down his spine and he clenched his fists to slow his trembling fingers. He knew where the village surgeon lived, but he did not know how he could convince the man to come out far into the night to treat a stranger. And if he took too long…

Kenma blinked hard and hastened his pace. It would be of no use to dwell when he was tasked with something so time-sensitive. 

There was no light from the windows of the village surgeon’s house. Kenma doubled over with a stitch in his side, panting hard, and it occurred to him in a very forceful and unpleasantly loud thought that the surgeon was probably asleep and Kenma would be faced with a very irritated, very influential man.

Kenma breathed in deeply and slowly let it out. His fist hovered over the wooden door as he closed his eyes, counted to three, and then pounded on the door.

When he was met with silence, he knocked again.

This time, there came sounds of movement from the floor above, and soon after, the unmistakable thuds of footsteps down a staircase. Kenma squeezed his hands together, feeling bones bend under bones, before the door flew open in front of him.

As expected, the doctor glared at him, bloodshot eyes and a curling beard giving the impression of a particularly angry bear. He was also dressed in a nightgown, and was shorter than Kenma would have expected, only a few centimeters taller, which admittedly distracted from the intimidation the man was so clearly trying to project.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing at this time of night, boy?” the doctor growled, and when Kenma tipped his head up to make eye contact, his tone shifted away from neighborly frustration to scathing vexation. “You’re that Kozume boy, aren’t you? Get off my porch and come back in the morning.”

“Wait!” Kenma held a hand out to hold the door steady as the doctor moved to close it. “I found someone badly injured near my house—I—he needs help.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m stupid, boy? I won’t wander around at night with some stranger.”

Kenma gritted his teeth. He had distinct memories of seeing this very doctor when he was younger and sick with flu, but that wouldn’t matter to this man, not when he was the _mysterious Kozume boy_. “Please. He’ll die if you don’t help him.”

The doctor made a sudden movement and Kenma nearly realized what he was trying to do a moment too late. His eyes watered when the door slammed against his elbow, but he kept it open and glared at the surgeon with tear-filled eyes.

“You’re a doctor,” he snarled. “You’re supposed to help people. There’s a man dying and you’ll just let him because you don’t trust me?”

The doctor stared back, moustache twitching. He looked just short of livid, and Kenma feared he might get violent, but instead he turned and shouted a name into the house, telling the unknown person to get set up. He shut the door in Kenma’s face but just when Kenma considered knocking and shouting again, he emerged, trailed by a sleepy older boy lugging a medical kit in his arms.

“Show me the way, then,” the doctor snapped.

It was likely the first time in his life that Kenma consistently outpaced someone, and it frustrated him to no end when he had to wait for the two medics to catch up. They were taking far too long and with every passing second, the cold pit in Kenma’s stomach seemed to expand, imagining with dread what Kenma might have to face upon his return.

Inside the copse, Kuroo laid still, eyes closed and head tilted to the sky. Kenma heart nearly stopped beating, and only restarted its pace when the doctor placed two fingers at Kuroo’s pulse point and declared, “He’s still alive.”

Upon Kenma’s insistence and the doctor’s grudging compliance, Kuroo was carried into Kenma house, and deposited onto his bed. It would be hell to scrub blood out of the blankets later on, but the worry did not occur to Kenma even for a second as he watched the doctor wipe Kuroo down with antiseptic and suture the wound shut. The gash stretched from a broad stripe scraped across the planes of Kuroo’s chest to a curling ribbon above his pelvis, ragged-edged and cruel, though no deeper than flesh.

Kuroo regained some consciousness when the doctor’s bandages wrapped around nearly the entirety of his torso. His arm was still limp and awkwardly angled at his side, and Kenma, dreading what was to come, slid to the kitchen floor and buried his head in his arms. He could not see the procedure, and the noises were muffled by a wall and his hands pressed to his ears, but he still heard Kuroo cry out as the doctor popped his joint back in place, and the sound rose bile to his throat.

A knock sounded from the doorframe, startling him. Kenma looked up, cheeks burning with embarrassment at having been caught in such a vulnerable position. “What is it?”

The doctor’s apprentice did not meet his eyes, and said in a flat tone, “The patient’s condition is stabilized. The doctor and I will take our leave.”

They left him with minimal aftercare instructions, not even bothering to ask who Kuroo was and where he would go. Of course Kenma didn’t mind this, but he did mind the bloodied rags discarded on the floor and the stained gloves hung over his sink. Evidently, one wasn’t obliged to clean up after themselves when in the house of an enigmatic witch. 

Kuroo’s eyes were half-lidded when Kenma returned to his bedside, his chest rolling in gentle crests with his stuttering breath. The candle Kenma lit cast his features in a sharp light, an uncanny figure, both as strange as the moon’s shadow and as familiar as Kenma’s reflection from childhood.

For lack of a better option, Kenma perched himself at the very edge of the bed, taking care not to brush up against Kuroo. He felt numbness in his skin and in his heart, shielding him from the vibrating congelation of disquiet buried in his chest.

There came an incoherent murmur before Kuroo said, in a faint voice, “Kenma?”

“How are you feeling?” asked Kenma.

There was a pause, before Kuroo answered, “Hurts like hell.”

A small sound slipped from the back of Kenma’s throat, an indecisive midpoint between a laugh and a hum. He bunched the bedsheets under his fists. “I’ll go into town tomorrow to buy sleeping bark.”

He could feel Kuroo’s fingers twitch through the blankets and fought the urge to clamp them against the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo said, hardly more than a sigh under his breath, but Kenma understood.

Kenma swallowed, tasting sand on his tongue. “Try to get some sleep. You still need to live through the night.” 

He could not bring himself to look at Kuroo, to observe the detail of his aged face with all its angular features that did not exist in Kenma’s memory. He could not bring himself to look at Kuroo because he was of a past Kenma had worked to shake free of, to leave the tangled mess of in a back corner of Kenma’s mind.

Kenma could only blow out the candle, curl up with a moth-eaten blanket on the floor, and pray that when he woke, he would not once again be the only soul inhabiting this home.

†††

The cartographer under whom Kenma apprenticed was less than pleased to hear his only worker needed leave when ventures outside the village (and thus, the demand for maps) had risen. He did not seem to believe Kenma’s claim of a sick family member and Kenma considered it a small miracle that he could return home that same morning with a promise of a job and pay if he returned the very next day.

Returning from the cartographer’s workshop, Kenma detoured to an apothecary, one placed in the far corner of the market that he less often frequented. There, he purchased bundles of sleeping bark and licorice root, a jar of honey and some ginger, hoping that if a crisis arose he wouldn’t need to wander town in search of medicine again.

If Kenma was dragging his feet, it was understandable—after all, what would _you_ say to your best friend whom you haven’t seen in ten years, suddenly appearing out of the blue and nearly bleeding out in your backyard?

If nothing else, Kenma wanted answers. His head was spinning with questions that had burdened him since childhood, questions he had long since buried with no hope for closure. Kenma’s memory was fuzzy and there was much of which he couldn’t discern between as true or a recollection altered over the years. If Kenma could finally understand, then…

Well, he just wanted to understand, first.

It was silent when he stepped into his home. The bedroom door was ajar, but Kuroo was in no state to have left while Kenma was gone, and so Kenma put his bag down in the kitchen and carefully— _slowly_ —put away his groceries.

Once he could avoid it no longer, he went down the hallway and brushed his fingers against the door, letting it creak open softly. He stepped halfway into the room, and whispered, softly, “Kuro?”

Kenma stepped inside. It was dark, sunlight spilling in red through the curtains. The room was a disastrous sight, as Kenma had yet to clean yesterday's mess, with bloodied blankets pooled around the cot and used rags littering the floor and the windowsill. On the bed laid Kuroo, with only white slits of his eyes visible.

"Are you awake?" asked Kenma. 

Kuroo replied with an affirmative hum. 

"Uhm.” Kenma dragged his foot against the wooden floor. “How are you feeling?”

Kuroo let out a huffy noise that made Kenma narrow his eyes. “I’ve felt better.”

Instinctually, Kenma rolled his eyes. “Do you _need_ anything?”

“Oh.” And then, “I’m thirsty as fuck, honestly.” His voice was scratchy, though whether it was from pain or genuine thirst Kenma could not tell. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the excuse to leave the room, and went to fetch the water.

He returned with a glass of water and the jar of sleeping bark in his hands. Kenma approached the bed slowly, watching Kuroo’s eyes flicker between Kenma and the ceiling.

Kenma stopped by the cot, awkwardly looking down at Kuroo laying beneath him.

“You’re going to need to get up to drink,” Kenma said, not eager for the inevitable struggle to help Kuroo with his basic functions.

“Oh.” Kuroo hesitated and glanced away. “I don’t think I can sit up by myself.”

Kenma was afraid of that, but there was not much else he could do, unless he wanted Kuroo to die of dehydration.

“Okay.” Kenma braced himself. “Alright.”

It was a trying process, as Kenma pressed one arm to Kuroo’s back and gripped onto his shoulder with the other, raising him high enough that he could rest his head on the low headboard and Kenma could stuff several pillows underneath him.

Kuroo was panting, rigid-backed, by the time Kenma stepped away. He made no noise of complaint, but from the tightness on his face, he was clearly in pain.

“Take this,” Kenma said, mixing several drops of water into the powdered sleeping bark to make a bitter, gritty paste, and guiding the spoon towards Kuroo’s mouth.

To his credit, Kuroo was not a fussy patient, and took the medicine with only a grimace at its taste. Kenma had to sit himself at the edge of the cot to help Kuroo drink, balanced precariously as he tipped the glass of water forward, and though some drops were spilled, Kuroo relaxed back, looking markedly more alert than before.

“Thanks,” he said breathlessly, and it was only his soft voice and sleepy expression that kept Kenma from scrambling off the bed and sheltering in the next room.

“You still haven’t told me how you got hurt,” Kenma pointed out, scooting to the foot of the bed and drawing one leg up in a more comfortable position.

“That, uh, well.” Kuroo’s eyes fell off Kenma. “Um, I got into…an accident.”

“An accident.”

“I fell,” Kuroo said, and if it was some half-hearted attempt at a joke, it did not amuse Kenma one bit.

“I’m not stupid, Kuro,” Kenma said, not raising his voice at all. But Kuroo winced as if Kenma had yelled and let out a resigned sigh.

“It’s…okay, I got into this thing with…some man. I don’t know, exactly.”

Kenma blinked at him, unconvinced and unimpressed.

Kuroo sighed again. “I’m telling the truth. I got lost and I…just was at the wrong place at the wrong time. You know these people don’t like outsiders.”

“Okay, but how—how—” And Kenma’s throat closed, clogged with burdensome memories, turbulent feelings he had long since abandoned. His last memory of Kuroo was his pale face, ten years old, squeezing Kenma’s hand tight as their parents’ voices carried through the gap under the door, urgent and hushed, and the suffocating tension of that moment seemed to carry over into the present.

He stood abruptly. Kuroo gave him a look tinted with concern, but he was blinking heavily, telling Kenma that the sleeping bark was doing its job. Kenma stepped back from the bed, stomach writhing, opening his mouth to say something and closing it a moment after.

Kenma glanced over his shoulder at the doorframe and found Kuroo already looking at him, through heavy eyes and a worn aspect. 

“Sleep,” he said, curling his fingers against the edge of the door. “We’ll talk later.” And when he closed the door, it was to the soft rhythm of Kuroo’s breaths.

†††

With ink-stained fingers and aching legs, Kenma entered through the doorway of his house.

His stomach was twisted with hunger but he had no patience to make a grand meal, and so by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, he had entered his bedroom, belly full with bread and reheated soup, a bowl of steaming broth in his hands.

“Thank you,” Kuroo murmured, positioned upright so his working arm could hold the spoon.

Kenma nodded shortly. Though he had slowly accustomed himself to Kuroo’s presence, as he laid on a makeshift bed of blankets on the floor last night, he still felt it quite awkward to have conversation, as if ten years had not passed since they were comfortable around each other.

He began to pick up the litter on the floor, now half-cleaned from the surgeon’s visit that fateful night. A tedious task it was, done mechanically with little thought, until Kenma noticed a swath of pale cloth, crumpled by the bathroom door.

He lifted it and watched it unfurl awkwardly, stiff and bunched in areas where blood crusted the fabric. But it was light, woven with fine fibers and precise needlework, a robe-like garment of a quality which could not be found in Kenma’s village.

“Kuro?” he asked, for he could not recall what Kuroo wore when he was carried into the house. “Is this yours?”

Kuroo raised his head, steadying the bowl on his lap. “Ah? Oh, yes, that is.” He eyed the thing with a shifty gaze.

“I don’t think I can mend this,” Kenma warned. It required a more delicate touch than Kenma could offer, mangled and bloodied as it was. “What is this made of?”

“Cotton,” Kuroo mumbled, turning the spoon over in his hand.

“It looks expensive,” Kenma said, mostly thinking out loud as he ran a hand along the soft fibers. “Or witch-make. Where did you…”

“Found a good deal,” Kuroo said, shrugging and not meeting Kenma’s eyes. Kenma turned away, the cold feeling of disappointment pooling in his stomach.

With no desire to make small talk and nothing new in his collection to read, Kenma turned to his chores that he had been putting off for days even before Kuroo arrived. After some thought, he uncovered a stack of clothes from the closet alongside his sewing kit, and settled, cross-legged, on the floor by the doorway. In silence they stayed, Kenma neatly mending tears in his clothes and Kuroo taking conservative sips of his broth as it ran cold.

Kuroo cleared his throat and said, “So, where did you go this morning?”

Kenma looked up and quickly back down, before responding, “Work.”

“What work?”

Kenma’s hands stilled amidst threading red string into the eye of a needle. “I apprentice for a cartographer in town.”

“Huh.” When Kenma took another look, a tiny smile had graced Kuroo’s face. “You always had fine dexterity.”

Kenma ducked his head, letting his dark hair fall over his eyes, and dug the needle into the first loose seam of his jacket.

“Do you like it? Your job?”

Kenma frowned and set down his work. “Why are you asking, all of a sudden? Surely it’s not important.”

“Sorry. I just…wanted to know,” Kuroo said, with a subdued note in his voice that made Kenma regret his sharp words.

He sighed. “No, it’s—the job is okay. It pays well enough.”

Kuroo was quiet for a while before he spoke up again. “I didn’t even know there was a town cartographer.”

“It hasn’t been here for long…three…four years, maybe?”

“I guess that makes sense. This place has grown since—since I—” Kuroo cleared his throat.

Kenma finished for him, in a bare voice. “Since you left.”

The room temperature seemed to drop by several degrees at that. Kenma diligently went back to his needlework.

“Yeah. That,” Kuroo said quietly. “I didn’t—I actually didn’t recognize it when I first passed by.”

“Why did you pass by?”

“Nothing of importance,” Kuroo replied instantly. “Just scouting the land for my boss…a chore, really…”

Kenma opened his mouth to ask a question—who was his boss, what was his work, where did he live—but the words died with a bitter taste on his tongue. He was not sure whether Kuroo was aware that Kenma could discern his lies, but it stung all the same.

Regardless, if Kuroo wouldn’t tell, Kenma wouldn’t push. After all, Kuroo had no real reason to trust Kenma much more than he already had.

“This reminds me of that one time, do you remember?” At Kenma’s confused look, Kuroo’s mouth crooked up. “I got that stomach bug. And then you got sick too, and we kept each other company while we recovered.”

Kenma did indeed remember that. He had been halfway convinced that Kuroo was dying and refused to leave his bedside, and when he himself fell ill, the two of them refused to be separated.

“I remember,” Kenma said, and wrinkled his nose. “It was sticky.”

“No, it was sweet,” Kuroo protested, with a light-hearted twinkle in his eye. “Even though you get grumpy when you’re sick. When we got better my father bought us that fish-shaped sweetbread from that shopkeeper…what was her name…?”

“Kaya-san,” Kenma recalled.

“Kaya-san! Those were good.” Kuroo stared into space for a moment, with an expression as if he was imagining the sweetbread right then and there. “Is she still making those?”

Kenma looked to his feet, stretched out in front of him. “She died four years ago. Lung fever.”

“Oh,” Kuroo said, appearing saddened. “I’m sorry.”

Kenma shrugged and said honestly, “I didn’t really know her.” In full truth, though Kaya-san was a mild-mannered woman in Kenma’s youth, as rumours surrounding Kenma grew, she began to eye him with increasingly suspicious looks; Kenma could not altogether say that he missed her.

“It’s strange,” Kuroo said, more to himself than to Kenma. “How much I thought would never change around here.”

Kuroo had pictured his childhood home in stasis while Kenma had no choice but to age alongside the village. There was nothing he could say to that.

When Kuroo looked at him again, his eyes held a hidden depth. Undecipherable to Kenma, he felt pinpricks of discomfort in Kuroo’s penetrating gaze and stood, with a muttered excuse of cleaning the kitchen the flimsy barrier between him and negative space of Kuroo’s secrets.

†††

Taking Kuroo in was not without consequences. Walking through the village center, just days after Kuroo was found, Kenma endured side glances and barely-masked hostility until the moment he stepped into the cartographer’s workshop.

He rolled out his ink kit and reached for the latest report for the surveyors, intending to create an updated rough draft, when the cartographer stepped in from the next room, dressed in an apron with parchment paper clutched in his hands.

“Kozume-kun,” the man said. “I must speak to you.”

Kenma paused. “What is it?”

“Kenma, you’re a good employee,” the cartographer began, in a tone that filled Kenma with dread. “And so it pains me to say this, it does, but several clients have begun to raise concerns.”

It clicked in Kenma’s mind. “About my working here,” he realized.

There was shallow pity in the man’s eyes which made Kenma’s skin crawl. “You must understand this is not because I want to, Kozume-kun. But these are hard times, and I need my livelihood as well as you do.”

 _Hard times, indeed,_ Kenma thought scornfully, for his mentor appeared too well-fed and well-dressed to not have sizeable savings stored away. “You’re firing me.”

“I would not do it if I had a choice,” the cartographer said with false apology. “It makes customers uneasy to see you around here. I think it’s best if you search for some different work for hire.”

Kenma’s chest constricted. “Sensei, please—reconsider. I’ve worked here for years and I need this money now more than ever.”

Kenma’s mentor nodded gravely. “Your sick cousin, am I correct? I’m afraid that’s part of the problem, Kozume-kun; you see, customers just don’t trust you bringing strangers into our home.”

Kenma should have known. But though every instinct of his was screaming to walk out the door, he couldn’t.

“I apologize, sensei,” he said, bowing, grateful his hair concealed his expression. “But if there’s any way you can reconsider…”

“I cannot, Kozume-kun.”

“I could work part time. I could work from home,” Kenma continued, the plea bitter in his mouth. “Would it not be less hassle than to train someone else? I can make it worth your while, sensei.”

The cartographer gave a heavy sigh. “Kozume-kun…you’re persistent. But I suppose you have a point.”

Kenma chanced a glance upwards, not daring to hope.

“It would take too long to train a new apprentice,” the cartographer mumbled musingly. “And beginners are clumsy…you have a steady hand…I suppose…it wouldn’t hurt for you to work from home. I have copies that need to be made.”

“Thank you,” Kenma breathed, “I’ll be efficient.”

The cartographer furrowed his brows at Kenma. “Boy, this is only until I can train a suitable replacement, or until that stranger of yours leaves.”

“I understand,” Kenma said, straightening up, because he knew it was the best he would get. “Thank you anyway, sensei.”

It was not the best deal, as Kenma’s boss not-so-secretly slid more orders than Kenma would usually complete into the stack of cotton-fiber squares, but in that moment all Kenma could care about was that he arrived home with his salary intact.

He quickly found that dull work became duller when done on the kitchen stool, and by the height of the sun’s arc, he was desperate for a distraction. He padded into Kuroo’s room— _his_ room—to find Kuroo awake, flipping through a book Kenma had earlier provided him in a dozy manner.

He blinked at Kenma with wide eyes as he entered. “You’re back early. Did something happen?”

Kenma couldn’t help his shoulders tense, but he put effort into keeping his expression neutral. There would be no effect if he told Kuroo that Kenma was being further shunned for Kuroo’s presence, except that the idiot would try to hobble out of the door in a fit of self-sacrificing heroics.

“Boss said I could work from home,” Kenma muttered as a hasty excuse. “I thought you were asleep.”

Kuroo smiled wryly. “Turns out that the excitement of being injured goes stale quickly.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Kenma asked, settling at the edge of the bed.

Kuroo responded with a tiny shrug of the shoulders. “You keep me well medicated. Look, I can even lift my arm now.”

He demonstrated this by raising his arm. It stayed well below chest level and Kuroo’s face showed visible strain.

“Stop that,” Kenma snapped. “You’ll just make it worse.”

Kuroo dropped his arm and wrinkled his brow at Kenma. “Are you okay? You look…agitated.”

“I’m fine,” Kenma insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not the one with my flesh torn open.”

Kuroo began to relax back against the pillow, the crown of his head supported by the short headboard. He gave Kenma a somber kind of smile. “Well, I have you to take care of me, don’t I?” The smile faded off his face and he glanced out the window, the sun reflected in his eyes.

Kenma swallowed around the lump in his throat and looked away, not knowing what was about to be said and not eager to find out.

When Kuroo spoke again, his voice was thick. “Seriously, Kenma…thank you for everything. You saved my life and you…you didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t,” Kenma answered. “I just…” He cut off his sentence, not willing to discover the rest of that sentence, certainly not out loud.

“I don’t think I can ever repay you,” Kuroo said.

When Kenma looked back at him, Kuroo’s eyes were glassy. Something tightened around his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” Kuroo said, and Kenma suddenly became hyperaware of their proximity, how Kuroo’s fingers twitched against his, separated only by several millimeters of cloth. “You didn’t deserve for all of this to be dumped on you when you have a life of your own. I’m so—”

“Stop,” Kenma croaked, because he knew what Kuroo would say next, the apology Kenma couldn’t stand to hear when Kuroo hardly knew what he was apologizing for.

“I’m—”

“Kuro. Don’t.” He stood, feeling cold and hot all over. It was apparent Kuroo had that been bursting with need to get the words off his chest, but Kenma couldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t accept it. “Don’t do that, don’t—on top of everything, I don’t need your self-pity. That’s the _one_ thing—I can’t do that, Kuro.”

He felt cruel, he _was_ cruel, as Kuroo dropped his gaze. He felt sick to his stomach; he should not have opened way for a conversation, he should have known it would only lead to the volt of truths that contained their past, but he was foolish, starving for something long lost.

He turned away; he could not look at Kuroo, not trusting his reaction if he did. It was all he could do to leave the room, closing the door in his wake.

†††

“Do you think I could walk to the kitchen?” Kuroo asked.

Kenma paused where he was changing Kuroo’s bandages. His wounds were far from healed, still bold, angry red lines stretched across his upper body. “I do not.”

Kuroo sighed. “Really?”

“Unless you want to be bleeding out on the floor again.”

“But I get so bored just sitting here,” Kuroo said, looking like a petulant child.

Kenma narrowed his eyes. “Still no.” He tied off the bandage and stood, tucking the pack of medical supplies under his arm, and stepped out of the room to put them back in their place.

He gathered their dinner from the kitchen counter, a platter of haphazardly molded rice balls stuffed with cured fish, which Kuroo had loved in their childhood.

He had just hoisted it up when the air split with sound of glass breaking—then a dull thud and a strangled yelp. Kenma dropped the plate and raced into his bedroom.

Once inside, his mind collected pieces of information in snatches: Kuroo on the bed, eyes squeezed shut and shards of glass littering his body, jeering, distant laughter outside the window, a jagged rock larger than an orange on the now-broken bedside table.

He rushed forward, but Kuroo put his good arm out, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t,” Kuroo said, his lips hardly moving. “They might throw another.”

“It might hit you,” Kenma said, desperation evident in his voice.

“I’ll be fine,” Kuroo said, and Kenma could wring his neck out of frustration. Kuroo cocked his head towards the window as if it would somehow enhance his hearing. “They’ve ran away, I think, but maybe you should—”

“Shut up,” Kenma said, with a waver that took the bite out of his order.

He stepped forward gingerly, hoping his slippers were enough to shield from pieces of glass on the floor. The stone seemed to have completely shattered the brittle glass his window was made of, leaving debris scattered across the vicinity. Most of which seemed to have landed on Kuroo.

Kenma peered out the window, but there was no one to be seen. He hadn’t recognized the laughter, only knowing it to be one of the many boys in the village with an inane grudge against him.

“Are you hurt?” he asked Kuroo.

Kuroo grimaced. “I just have a lot of glass in my hair and would like to open my eyes safely.”

Kenma moved over to pick the larger pieces of glass out of Kuroo’s unruly hair, carefully combing the smaller shards out with his fingers. When he stepped back, Kuroo blinked open his eyes, pupils darting around like he was surveying for enemies.

“I—” Kenma’s breath caught. He knew that stone had been thrown to torment him. He couldn’t suppress the guilt consuming his chest, knowing that Kuroo had suffered the consequences of Kenma’s ostracization.

“Kenma. Hey.” Kuroo leaned forward ever so slightly to capture Kenma’s gaze. “I’m okay. I’m fine. But help me get this stuff off me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kenma said, forcing a deep breath. “Okay.”

It would have been a simple task if not for Kenma’s trembling hands, twitching over sharp edges even as he tried to safely sweep them into a dustpan. He could not stop the boys’ laughter from ringing in his head, not just from now but from every accidental run-in on the less-travelled roads, every afternoon as he escaped the schoolyard and ran back to his quiet, quiet home.

“Kenma? Hey, sit down,” Kuroo murmured, as Kenma swept debris away from the bed. “Come here.”

The broom slipped through Kenma’s hands and he obliged, sitting on the sliver of mattress at Kuroo’s side.

Kuroo took one of Kenma’s hands in his own, squeezing lightly, the gentle pressure grounding Kenma as he breathed in deeply, trying to expel the tension from his body. “Are you okay? You look…pale.”

Kenma let out another quivering exhale. “I’m fine.”

Kuroo peered at him closely, studying his face with apparent concern. Kenma turned his head so his long hair hung like a curtain, blocking off his face.

He brushed his hand against a frayed edge of Kuroo’s bandages, and did not miss Kuroo’s wince. The cloth had been damaged with small nicks in the fabric thread and larger splits along the grainline. Worse yet, he could see thin, reddening lines marking Kuroo’s upper body, damage done by the razor-thin edge of glass that was not initially visible.

Kuroo widened his eyes as Kenma reached out to press the pads of his fingers against Kuroo’s jaw and tilt his head every so slightly for a better view. In a dreamlike state, he swiped a thumb over an oozing cut, leaving a rusty smear against Kuroo’s cheekbone and his own thumb.

When he drew his hand back, they shook not from fear, but from rage.

“Kenma?” Kuroo asked softly. Kenma did not know what Kuroo saw on his face, but Kuroo’s own appeared worried. “Who…were those people? They sounded like they were just children.”

Kenma pulled his hand out of Kuroo’s lax grip and flexed it against his knee. “They were.”

“I heard one scream, ‘This is for the witch’,” Kuroo said, “Were—were they talking about you?”

Kenma felt wound up, tension coiling up his shoulders, but at this point he had no choice. He nodded.

As expected, Kuroo’s face pinched with a look of acute distress. “Does this happen often? Have they tried to hurt you before?”

“No,” Kenma answered. “It’s never been like that, it was just…”

“Just what?” Kuroo appeared angry, now, with firelight illuminating his golden eyes. “Call you names? Treat you like some outcast in your own home? And them throwing that stone, that was because of me, wasn’t it?”

Kenma didn’t respond, but he knew he didn’t need to.

“People here are wary of outsiders,” Kuroo continued. “And if they already think that you’re some sort of evil magician, then they’d just as easily assume that I’m a threat.” Kuroo grabbed his wrist, forcing Kenma to face him, and Kenma was unable to look away from the raw hurt in his eyes. “Why didn’t you _tell me_? You’re in danger with me around, I wouldn’t have stayed if I knew it could get you hurt!”

“Because I knew you’d say something stupid like this!” Kenma burst out, glaring at Kuroo. “You can’t even walk, so how would you have taken care of yourself?”

“I’d have figured it out,” Kuroo retorted, meeting Kenma with a defiant gaze. “I’d rather not have put you at risk.”

Kenma pulled away and stood, looking down at Kuroo. “Stop trying to protect me. I’ve dealt with this for years.”

He resolutely did not notice how Kuroo wilted and instead walked out with the short declaration of “I’m bringing dinner.” Looking down at the platter of slightly misshapen rice balls, he resisted the urge to launch them out the window—fish, after all, was not cheap—and instead carried it back to his room.

He hated how reactive he became around Kuroo, but it seemed he couldn’t stop. There was always emotion simmering underneath the surface of his skin, more so now that he worked from home, waiting to erupt at the slightest provocation.

“Food,” he said flatly, holding the platter out to Kuroo. 

Kuroo picked up a rice ball, adjusting his grip so the filling would not fall out—Kenma didn’t miss his dubious expression at Kenma’s cooking skills, no matter that Kenma had fed him for over a week.

Kenma retreated to the opposite wall, not willing to sit close to Kuroo after the last quarrel. He nibbled on his rice ball and watched Kuroo in the periphery of his vision, as he took a bite and chewed slowly.

“Kenma,” Kuroo said, his voice hoarse. “Is this my dad’s recipe?”

Unwittingly, Kenma flushed, and stared holes into the floor. “A poor attempt at it, yeah,” he muttered, ducking his head.

“No,” Kuroo said, sounding choked up. “No, it’s good, Kenma, it—it tastes like his.”

Kenma risked a glance up to see that Kuroo’s eyes had glossed over, staring into the rice ball as if it contained the answers to his troubles. “Kuro?”

Kuroo shook his head minutely. “I’m fine.”

He very clearly was not, but Kenma was not willing to push. He regretted this decision when Kuroo next spoke.

“I had been wanting to ask you something…” Kuroo started, still gazing into his rice ball. “Kenma…what happened to your parents?”

The bottom of Kenma’s stomach dropped out.

It was not a subject he touched even in the confines of his mind. It unleashed a dangerous spiral of thought, one that Kenma struggled to break free of, and had no reason to explore. Kenma struggled to form an answer, the words refusing to be spoken into the air.

When Kuroo gave a sharp inhale followed by a shuddering exhale, he knew Kuroo knew.

“How?” Kuroo asked, hardly louder than a whisper.

Kenma swallowed around the stones settling in his throat. “Lung fever. Four years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo said, anguished.

Kenma shook his head, unable to respond.

Kuroo cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. “Two years ago. That’s when my dad died.”

An iron fist clenched around Kenma’s heart. Kuroo’s father, who had fed Kenma, taken care of him when he was ill, provided comfort and love to Kenma as readily as he did to his own son—the thought that he was just gone, with equal frailty as Kenma’s parents, sucked the air out of Kenma’s lungs. For a moment, he and Kuroo sat there, together, just them two against a vast, uncaring world that stole away their protectors.

“Did you have people,” Kenma asked, staring at the floor. “People who comforted you? Who took care of you?”

“Yes.” Kuroo’s voice cracked. “I did.”

Kenma closed his eyes, feeling heat burn behind his eyelids. When his parents had passed, he was well and truly alone for the first time in his life. Kuroo was long gone, and Kenma had no other friends or family to rely on. His parents’ death had seen the end of his schooling and his adolescence.

“Good,” Kenma said softly. He meant it.

If possible, Kuroo’s face crumbed further. His eyes met Kenma, brimming with indecipherable depths of emotion that put a painful twist in Kenma’s stomach.

Kenma looked away and bit into his riceball.

“You’ve been alone since then, right?” Kuroo asked. “I never thought…I had never even _considered_...”

“You thought of me after you left?” Kenma asked, then fought the urge to clamp a hand over his mouth.

Kuroo winced, although Kenma could not tell why. He hadn’t intended it as an accusation; it was an involuntarily spoken question, a childish question, spoken by a version of Kenma many years younger.

“Of course I did,” Kuroo answered, picking at the blanket that covered his legs. His eyes flitted to Kenma and then away, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I thought about you every day, Kenma.”

It was too much for Kenma, and his skin tingled with the need to retreat. There were a thousand questions: _why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you visit? Why did it feel like you forgot if you didn’t?_

“But…I live a different life. A dangerous life,” Kuroo continued. “I couldn’t just leave. And I couldn’t imagine you would be better off there. I—I want you to understand that I never meant to leave you behind. I never wanted you to feel like that.” He looked down, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“You thought I wouldn’t be better off there,” Kenma repeated numbly. He thought of the fine fabric Kuroo had arrived in, thought of the muscular, _well-fed_ planes of Kuroo’s body, and had a hard time imagining where Kuroo could come from that would be worse than here.

Kuroo didn’t answer, and when Kenma glanced at him, he was gazing out the broken window, eyes glazed—thinking something over, no doubt. Kenma concentrated on the sharp taste of fish in his food, chewing slowly.

It was minutes later when Kuroo spoke up again. “This time, when I leave—”

 _When I leave._ Because Kuroo was planning on returning to his home, wasn’t he? Caught up in his regained companionship, it had nearly slipped his mind that this was temporary. In mere weeks, his life would return back to normal, and he didn’t know how he could deal with that newfound loss.

“Kenma? Listen, I’ve been wondering, when I leave—”

“Kuro, I can’t talk about this,” Kenma said, trying to keep his voice short and steady. He hated to expose his pain—but he would not be able to discuss Kuroo’s departure so casually.

Kuroo’s brow furrowed. “Kenma—”

“Kuro.” Kenma pressed his fists to his forehead, desperate to control the unmoored emotions swirling within him. “ _Please_.”

He hadn’t intended it to sound like a plea.

“Okay,” Kuroo said softly. “Okay. Later, then.”

Kenma nodded and breathed deeply, trying to steady himself.

“Come here,” Kuroo said. He scooted over on the bed and hissed from pain; Kenma stood, in part because of Kuroo’s request and in part to stop Kuroo from wriggling around and undoing his bandages.

“What,” Kenma muttered, approaching his bed.

“I want to give you a hug,” Kuroo said.

Kenma blinked at him, wondering if this was a joke, but Kuroo looked dead serious. He lowered himself to the cot with a wary expression, not sure what to expect, and feeling as if he would combust at the slightest touch.

Kuroo held out his good arm and taking the cue, Kenma leaned forward. It was an awkward angle, with many whispered “sorry”s exchanged as Kenma accidentally nudged against Kuroo’s tender wounds.

But when he let himself relax down further, an arm folded against Kuroo’s side and an arm rested across Kuroo’s chest, he felt enveloped in a warmth he had not experienced since his parents’ death. He was reminded of a time when they were still children, their world stretching no farther than the confines of their house, and they would bury under the covers together on chilly mornings, warming themselves with blankets and each other’s body heat. It brought a fresh wave of stinging to his eyes and he tightened his grip, irrationally sated by this touch.

†††

Kenma woke to a sticky fire against his skin, though through the shattered window came a steady draft, and the candle had fizzled out as he slept. He was pressed against something uncomfortably hot, a furnace in comparison to the sharp cold of the air.

It was Kuroo. Kenma reeled back in horror, trying to remember—had he fallen asleep on Kuroo? His face burned red at the thought.

Kuroo didn’t twitch at Kenma’s sudden movements, and that was the clue that told Kenma something was wrong. His eyelids fluttered weakly, his mouth making shapes as if he was talking in his sleep—as if he was having a bad dream.

“Kuroo,” Kenma whispered, his anxiety overpowering his self-consciousness. He reached out, placed a hand over his throat, then his forehead, confirming his suspicion: fever. A bad case of it.

Kenma rolled off the bed, nearly dislodging the blanket draped over Kuroo’s legs. He had little idea of how to act; when his parents fell ill, he had been quarantined in the schoolhouse with his peers, unable to do more but wait.

The thought of his parents sent a stab of panic through his chest, a gaping wound which he filled in with determination. He would not allow Kuroo to succumb to the same fate. He _refused_ that fate.

He rummaged through his medicine store, searching for the licorice root he had purchased for this very purpose. Over the stovetop, he prepared a saccharine concentrate of the root, which he spooned into Kuroo’s mouth, cradling the back of his head with his hand.

This disturbance roused Kuroo but he was practically unresponsive still, just blinking slowly and gazing at Kenma with fever-bright eyes. He obliged to swallowing down the medicine and water but fell asleep soon after, motionless except for the unsteady rise of his chest and occasional twitch of his eyes.

Kenma couldn’t return to sleep and he didn’t try to, instead opting to watch Kuroo for any signs of improvement.

It didn’t come. For maybe the first time in his life, he found it difficult to sit still and do nothing. The moon was lowering in the sky when he fetched a rag and a bowl of cool water to draw heat out of Kuroo’s skin, which had started to become concerningly _(dangerously)_ hot.

As morning approached, Kenma felt the tendrils of desperation dig into his skin. Kuroo’s breathing was shallow, almost feeble, and he hadn’t stayed conscious for more than mere moments, hadn’t said more than a handful of incoherent syllables through the night.

He pushed Kuroo’s hair, made stringy by sweat, out of his eyes. There was an unnatural blush on his cheeks, physical evidence of the fire burning underneath his skin.

Kenma was no doctor, and he needed someone who was. The thought of confronting the town doctor again made his stomach lurch unpleasantly, but when compared to the thought of losing Kuroo to this sickness…Kenma couldn’t think of much he wouldn’t do.

So he pulled on his best coat and combed his hair with his fingers to appear semi-presentable. He had no desire to face the open streets that led to the doctor’s home and practice, but he had little choice.

During such an early hour, there were few people travelling on foot, and Kenma could make his journey uninterrupted. He came in sight of the doctor’s large house, bathed in morning sun—a villa of white stone that didn’t want an urchin like Kenma at its front porch.

Kenma knocked anyway.

The door was opened by a woman, too old to be the doctor’s wife, perhaps the maid. She surveyed Kenma with dark, confused eyes and closed the door before he could get a word in edgewise.

Kenma was about to knock again when the door swung open, hinges shrieking, to reveal the good town doctor. His face was scarlet and his eyes protruded out too far for Kenma’s comfort.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, in equal parts a bark and a whisper.

“My friend has a fever,” Kenma said bluntly. “I think he has an infection.”

“Get off my property,” the man hissed, glancing around furtively as if he was being hunted. Kenma recognized this easily; he was scared someone would see him interact with the scrawny town witch.

“I need your help,” Kenma spoke in rapid words. “He could die—you’re a doctor, I need your help.”

“I don’t care!” the doctor whisper-screamed. “Does this look like a charity to you, boy?”

“But—”

“No!” The man’s face purpled further. “Get away, you wretch, and if you return, I shall have my son drag you away with his hands.”

The door slammed in Kenma’s face.

It was over.

As a wave of panic slammed into Kenma, he gasped for breath, but it seemed air wouldn’t enter his lungs, leaving his chest searing and tight. If he could not get medical help for Kuroo, then he was left with his own two hands—which meant that if Kuroo’s internal resolve didn’t hold up, he was as good as dead.

With a bang, the door in front of him burst open. Kenma looked up, wildly hoping for a miraculous change in heart.

“GET. OUT,” the doctor bellowed, and Kenma scurried away, like a dog with its tail between his legs.

He still struggled to breathe as he ran, a stitch forming in his sides. His vision was blurred and his thoughts were disjointed when he skidded to a halt, nearly falling over, and coughing from exertion.

While bent double, the noises around Kenma sounded distorted and distant—and then he was viciously jerked back to reality, quite literally, as a vice-like grip nearly popped his shoulder from its socket.

There was raucous laughter around him. He was surrounded by several men—men, not boys.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, trying to sound angry rather than terrified. “Let go of me!”

The men sneered, and the one gripping Kenma’s arm said, “Think you’re in the position to be making commands? Think you’re so powerful?”

Kenma attempted to pull his arm back, to no avail. The other men just laughed at his flail for freedom.

“Don’t be dramatic,” the man holding Kenma said. “We just think you should help us out, instead of hoarding all that dark magic for yourself. My wife’s sick so why don’t you wave your little…”

A white roaring filled Kenma’s ears, dizzying him with its intensity. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he were not here, that he were anywhere but here.

“Let me GO!” he roared, swinging his trapped arm in an attempt to dislodge the other man.

He heard a yelp that did not come from his own mouth, and the grip suddenly disappeared, causing Kenma to stumble back several steps. Startled, he opened his eyes, and saw the other men glaring at him with fury in their eyes. The one who held Kenma had recoiled, clutching his hand as if he had touched hot iron.

Kenma didn’t know what was happening but he did know that he would lose this advantage of surprise soon. He snarled, “Stay away from me,” and turned tail in the other direction, heading home.

It was cool outside but as Kenma entered his house, sweat clung to his skin. He shed his coat, not bothering to pick it off the floor, and stumbled to his bedroom.

It only took one glance to know that Kuroo’s state had not improved. Kenma collapsed at his bedside, heaving for breath.

“Kenma?”

Kenma jumped and turned. Kuroo struggled to open his eyes, peering at Kenma through bloodshot slits. His breath rattled in his chest.

“Are you okay?” Kuroo asked, in a voice that was utterly destroyed.

Kenma could have laughed. “I don’t know how to help you.”

Kuroo blinked slowly, as if he had difficulty processing Kenma’s works. It scared Kenma to his bones; never before had he seen Kuroo unable to think quickly.

“I don’t think…” Kuroo squinted. “Help…hm…miss Yakkun. He could help. He’s so small and sharp but his healing is magic…”

Kenma clenched his jaw so hard he nearly cracked a tooth. Kuroo’s feverish ramblings made not a lick of sense; his brains were addled by sickness and Kenma couldn’t do a thing to help him.

“He’ll say ‘I told you so’…” Kuroo’s eyes fluttered shut. “’S okay, Kenma…”

And he fell back into unconsciousness.

Kenma was so, so tempted to join him, to lie down and slip into dreamland, but he couldn’t. He wanted to get supplies to redress Kuroo’s wounds, but his body refused to move. His muscles remained frozen from panic, his mind flooded with each and every inevitable, horrific scenario that awaited him.

 _Please,_ Kenma thought, _please, please, please._

He could only pray for a miracle.

It took all his effort just to stand, his vision blacking out for half a second when he did so. He retrieved fresh bandages and unwrapped the old; the infected wound was sticky, leaking with fresh blood and pale discharge, but he did his best with his strongest antiseptic ointments and the cleanest water he could find. 

Through the afternoon, Kuroo alternated between sweating profusely and shivering violently. He didn’t wake again.

While the sun reached the vertex of its arc and fell back to the horizon, Kenma stayed at Kuroo’s bedside, clutching his hand, running a thumb along the grooves of his palms and knuckles, memorizing the feel of his skin. His eyes burned; it wasn’t long before Kenma could taste salt trickling into his mouth.

As dark ink bled down from the sky, Kenma began to hear noises, which were not in of themselves strange, but signs of life uncharacteristic for village outskirts: footsteps, voices, even laughter. Though it had not yet reached the cold of the night, the hairs on his arms prickled.

Something was very wrong.

He moved to close the curtain that fluttered over the broken window, when a pebble flew in and struck Kenma square in the chest.

He let out a noise that was more from surprise than pain. From outside came the laughter of multiple people, followed by gleeful orders to continue.

“Fire away!”

Kenma ducked just in time; through the window came several rocks, none too large by themselves, but enough to break off little the remaining glass on his window, certainly big enough to hurt. He covered Kuroo’s body with his own, bracing himself just high enough to not press weight on Kuroo’s injuries. He squeezed his eyes shut, forehead pressed against Kuroo’s shoulder, and listened to stones crash against the bedroom wall.

The barrage of rocks came to a halt. He heard whispered laughter outside.

He and Kuroo were vulnerable here, but they had nowhere to go. The least Kenma could do was keep them from being hit, keep Kuroo safe for as long as possible.

It was a difficult feat, since Kenma was weak, but he crouched on the floor and half-slid, half-carried Kuroo off the bed. There was a painful thud when Kuroo’s body made contact with the ground, but Kenma didn’t have the luxury of caring; he shoved Kuroo’s limp form as far as he could under the cot and rolled in as close as possible, hoping that at this angle the stones couldn’t be aimed at them.

It wasn’t a moment too soon. Around the house, glass shattered as rocks were thrown, followed with whoops and taunting chants.

“Come out, little witch!”

“Show your face, you coward!”

“Witch!”

They jeered, clearly having fun tormenting him. The moment they got bored with that would be the moment they stormed in, and the moment that Kenma would lose the vestiges of safety he had been clinging to.

“Kuroo,” he said, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

_I couldn’t keep you safe. I couldn’t even keep myself safe long enough to take care of you. They’ll take me and they’ll kill me and then they’ll kill you and there’s nothing I can do about it._

“I can’t do this without you,” he spoke into Kuroo’s hair. “I’m trapped and you’re sick. I need you to not be sick. I need you back.”

He blinked water out of his eyes and pressed closer, as the banging around the house became deafening. He had no delusions that his tearful declarations would help, but in that moment, they were all he had.

“I’m sorry for being so angry all the time,” he whispered, “I couldn’t stand the thought that you’d leave again. But they might take me away first. At least you won’t have to—”

His words were cut off with a cry; it took him a moment to realize it escaped from his own mouth. Static buzzed through his ears, rattling his skull, and—and—

His hands were glowing _gold_.

Kenma would have screamed, but his jaw was bolted in place. A burning cold crawled up his arms; he thought his arms might explode, like bolts of electricity were shooting through his very bones—

One word resonated through his mind, sharp and clear over the incessant humming.

_Witch._

He reached out for Kuroo blindly, whether from an instinctive need for comfort or a desperation to protect, he didn’t know.

One hand of his pressed over Kuroo’s chest and he gasped at the sudden relief. As though power was diffusing out through his skin, the charged pressure lowered until Kenma could feel his hands again.

The golden glow dimmed, flickered, and then went out.

Kenma slumped on the floor like a wrung-out towel. His limbs burned as if he had just sprinted several miles, jaw aching and chest heaving.

In front of him, Kuroo’s eyes flared open.

“Kenma?” he asked, in a rough voice. “What’s going on?”

“How are you—” Kenma broke off, coughing weakly.

“What’s that noise?” Kuroo asked. “Kenma, what are we hiding from?”

“The other villagers,” Kenma rasped, “They think I’m—”

“If you won’t come out, little witch, we’ll have to come get you!” bellowed someone outside. “Try fighting us all at once with your little magic!” 

Kuroo reached out to Kenma…with his recently dislocated arm. Kenma stared at it as Kuroo grasped his shoulder, shaking gently. “Kenma, what do they want? Are they trying to run you out?”

Kenma gulped. “Something like that. I—I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t think we can—”

Kuroo’s face hardened. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not going down here. I’ll hold them off, you pack our stuff—we have to get out of here.”

“How are you going to do that?” Kenma asked, voice high with tension. “They’ll kill you.”

Kuroo drew a grim look. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

“Kuro!” Kenma protested, but Kuroo was done discussing. He winced as he stood, belying the pain he felt, and Kenma could only watch in trepidation as Kuroo hobbled out into the hall.

“Pack our stuff!” Kuroo shouted back. Then came a great bang as Kuroo burst open the door and confronted the armed mob outside.

There was nothing else for it. Kenma scrambled through the house to find the largest bag he owned, then began tossing in his hardiest clothes. He bundled food into the cleanest cloth he could find, keeping low to the floor in fear of more thrown stones, dancing around the minefield of shattered glass. 

Several large bangs went off, literally rattling the walls of the house, followed by a flash of such bright gold that Kenma had to close his eyes against the light.

“Kuro!” he cried. From the sound of things, something _big_ was going on outside, and it was Kuroo against several dozen. There was no way he could win.

But it was Kuroo that bolted back in through the door, locking eyes with Kenma, looking worse for wear but whole. “You’re ready? Good. We have to leave _now_ , they won’t be out for long.”

A million questions lodged in Kenma’s throat, but he glanced out the front entrance, where it was eerily quiet, and just nodded.

“We’ll go out through the back,” Kuroo decided.

“There’s no door in the back.”

Kuroo’s smile held something bitter. “Don’t worry.”

Before Kenma could ask for elaboration, Kuroo strode to the farthest end of the hall, facing into Kenma’s sad little garden. Without missing a beat, he flared out his palm and blew out the wall with a bolt of gold.

He turned back to Kenma, who gaped at him.

Kuroo’s eyes glimmered with sadness, but held out a hand. Extending an invitation. It was Kenma’s choice, whether to accept the depths of Kuroo’s secrets or to cast them away entirely.

Kenma took a deep breath and clasped Kuroo’s hand within his own.

†††

Kenma had not been running for more than fifteen seconds but already he was exhausted. He glanced back to his house, with its gaping hole in the back, the and fallen bodies spread around the front.

“Are they—?”

“They’re not dead,” Kuroo huffed. “Passed out. Will be fine. Sore as hell, though.” His grin showed strain—he was clearly as tired as Kenma, if not more.

But he didn’t falter, nor did Kenma ask him to slow down. Kenma couldn’t be sure that the villagers would be satisfied with running them out of town; it was best they put as much distance between themselves

They ran in a direction southeast to his house until they hit the tree line of the forest, at which they began to jog straight east. As they kept their pace, Kuroo seemed to rely more on Kenma’s support to stay upright, and Kenma’s chest flared with alarm when he noticed Kuroo clutching the bandages over his abdomen.

“Kuro,” he said, tugging Kuroo to a halt. “We need a place to rest.”

It was a mark of how much Kuroo was pushing himself that he hardly argued, just doubled over and nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “Where—”

“I can find us a place,” Kenma said.

It was farther than Kenma would have liked. He put Kuroo’s arm around his shoulders, put his arm around Kuroo’s waist, letting him hobble along with his eyes half-closed. His own muscles protested at every move, but he gritted his teeth and kept on, knowing they couldn’t afford to stop out in the open as the cold night deepened.

They arrived at the hilly base of the nearest mountain pass, one Kenma had drawn on maps dozens of times for prospective travelers and merchants. He knew from word-of-mouth that small caves spotted the area, and though there were high odds of encountering cave spiders, he thought them less of a threat than the biting cold and their exhaustion.

In the first cave with an even ground, Kenma stumbled to his knees. Kuroo practically slipped out of his arms, but Kenma had no energy to catch him; just moments later, he collapsed, and the world around him dissolved into blackness.

†††

When he woke, he was warm. He blinked, clearing the sleepy blur from his eyes, to see the gray swath of dawn in the sky.

“Morning,” said a voice.

Kenma turned to the voice, and found Kuroo sitting with his back against the cave wall. He had purple bruises under his eyes and his posture was slumped, like a ball with all its air leaked out, but when he met Kenma’s eyes, he smiled.

“Thought you were sleeping,” Kenma croaked. He turned fully and pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes. A fully lit fire was dancing to the side, close enough to keep Kenma warm. There was no fuel in sight.

“I did,” Kuroo said, “And then I woke up, and then I couldn’t fall back asleep. Breakfast?”

He tossed Kenma a roll of bread, which he fumbled with before catching. He only became aware of the hunger wrenching his stomach when he stuffed half the roll down his gullet.

“You’ll choke,” Kuroo said, but Kenma had polished off his food in record time.

It wasn’t nearly enough to satiate him, but Kenma found that there were more pressing concerns. The events of the previous day played back in his memories, and he found himself both wanting and able to ask his many questions.

“You never told me you could do magic.”

“You never told me that you could, either,” Kuroo rebutted, though his face showed unmistakable guilt.

“I…” Kenma looked down at his palms, then clenched his fists. “I can’t. I don’t know what that was. I never did that before.”

Kuroo looked down at Kenma’s hands. “Oh.”

“Oh? That’s _it_?” Kenma crawled closer. He was fed up with the secrecy. “You know something about this. Tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start.” Kuroo looked out the cave mouth, at the rising sun.

“How can you do magic?” Kenma asked. “How—I thought the arts had fallen into obscurity. Nobody practices them anymore; half the village thinks that magic doesn’t exist.”

“Well, it does,” Kuroo answered, flexing his wrist. “I learned after I moved. A pretty late age for learning magic, but I made do.”

Kenma narrowed his eyes and did little to suppress the growing anger in his tone. “And where exactly did you move? You’ve been very secretive about this.”

Kuroo took a deep breath. He didn’t meet Kenma’s gaze. “You know that our parents moved us to that village when we were very young. When I left, it was because my father thought it was time we moved back to our original home. Your parents didn’t come with, because they thought you would still be in danger.”

“From what? What does this have to do with anything?” Kenma asked.

“Everything.” Kuroo sighed heavily. “I live with this…sort of clan, I suppose you could call it. The clan of Nekoma. Our people go back thousands of years, and we’ve been practicing magic all that while. But we practically live in the wilderness, and the outside world has grown increasingly hostile towards magic—you know that. So we keep our existence a secret, and protect our people with our life.” He lifted his head, golden eyes piercing into Kenma’s, and in them was a fire of true loyalty, to fight for and die for his family.

Kenma’s stomach hollowed. What he was hearing was that all these years alone, and he could have had a place to belong all along. A history and heritage that was kept from him, leaving him stranded in a world to which he didn’t belong.

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” He stood, despite his legs trembling with strain. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why—why was I abandoned? Why did my parents—”

“They were doing it to protect you,” Kuroo said, “The clan had been at war with nearby settlers—”

“And then they were gone!” Kenma’s voice cracked horribly. “They were gone and you were gone! I had nothing!”

“I didn’t know,” Kuroo said. His eyes held an unspoken plea for forgiveness, for understanding. “I thought you’d be safer there, you could have a fuller life—they had thought the war was over, when my father returned, but it returned, more dangerous than before. We lost people. I—my dad died defending our settlement.”

Kenma breathed shakily. “I—I’d have taken anything over that place, Kuro. Most of the villagers hated me.”

Kuroo closed his eyes. “I know, now. I’m so sorry, Kenma. I never meant to abandon you.”

“Yeah, well.” Kenma aimed a kick at a pebble, though with his leg muscles as limp as they were, it hardly moved. “So, you can do magic. Couldn’t heal yourself?”

“Magic draws from your inner energy,” Kuroo explained, “Healing magic even more so, it’s almost directly connected to your life force. It’s pretty much impossible to heal a serious ailment or injury on yourself without exhausting yourself to death.”

“What’s the point, then,” Kenma muttered, finally giving into his weariness and sliding down the cave wall opposite to Kuroo. He had not let go of his hurt, but found his curiosity overwhelming.

Kuroo looked at him with an inquisitive edge that Kenma found in equal parts familiar and foreboding. “You know you can learn magic, right? I can teach you.”

The mere thought was enough to light a spark in Kenma’s chest. “I’m pretty far past the prime age to learn that stuff. And I can’t—I don’t think I can…”

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” Kuroo said, as casual as if he were talking about the weather. “It’s in your blood. And you’re smart, anyway, you’re just good at things, you’ll be good at it.”

Kenma stared daggers into his knees to ignore the fact that his face had warmed several degrees. “How did I do magic back there, then?”

“It’s rare, but when people experience really strong emotions, especially fear, their magic can work like a reflexive defense mechanism.” Kuroo clearly glowed with joy from being able to explain like a schoolteacher. His offer to teach Kenma magic was probably as much for him as it was for Kenma. “I’d bet that the villagers attacking your house were big enough of a threat to activate it.”

“That, and the fact that you were half-dead,” Kenma pointed out, though it was mostly mumbled into the arm Kenma rested his chin against.

“That…” Kuroo exhaled shakily, and looked away. “So you saved my life. Again.”

Kenma shrugged.

“Kenma. Thank you.”

The tender gratitude in Kuroo’s expression was too much, too intimate for Kenma to digest just right then; looking at him was like staring into the sun. He just nodded, not able to convey how little he needed the thanks.

“We should get moving,” he said, in need of a diversion. “How are you feeling?”

†††

As it turned out, Kuroo was…mostly fine. Kenma couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he performed magic strong enough to accelerate Kuroo’s healing, reducing the infected gashes to shiny stretches of fresh scar tissue.

“Explains why you were so tired afterwards,” Kuroo explained. With more food and sleep, his skin had started to regain some of its colour; he now walked firmly upright, even managing to outpace Kenma on occasion.

Kenma couldn’t stop flexing his hands, recalling the feel of magic flowing through them. It was terrifying, almost painfully intense—but it was exhilarating. It was freedom.

With the sun high in the sky, it became harder and harder to continue on—on top of hungry and tired, Kenma was now sweaty.

“We should stop,” Kenma said, grabbing onto Kuroo’s arm. “It’s too hot.”

Kuroo glanced around, hesitated, then nodded.

They made their way to a large tree, branches sprawling out from the edge of the forest. The cool shade made Kenma sigh in relief, and he flopped down between the tree roots, not minding the knots that dug into his back. Kuroo passed him a waterskin, and he drank eagerly.

“Why is your clan called Nekoma?” he asked, handing the waterskin back to Kuroo.

Kuroo smirked. “Because we’re cat people.”

“Great,” Kenma grumbled, “If at any point you want to elaborate…”

“No, I mean it literally.” Kuroo gave him a sideways glance—gauging his reaction, probably. “Our clan’s greatest secret, our greatest gift.”

The gears began to turn in Kenma’s head, and he stared at Kuroo in disbelief. “You’re _cats_?”

“Technically, we turn into cats at will,” Kuroo amended. “All of us are born with the ability.”

Kenma’s stomach flipped. “Does that mean…?”

“You can, too. It’ll take some time, it always does, but you’ll be able to.”

“Oh,” Kenma breathed.

“You know, I was actually sneaking around as a cat when I got injured,” Kuroo said conversationally. “Apparently people think the best way to defend their chickens is to swipe at the cat with a pitchfork. Repetitively.”

“That’s horrible,” Kenma said. He tugged at a loose thread of memory with his mind until it spilled into remembrance. “You were the black cat!”

Kuroo’s eyes widened, and he blushed. “Oh, um. Maybe.”

“So why didn’t you just come to me for help?” Kenma demanded. “You knew I was there!”

“I needed a safe place to turn back, it’s not exactly easy when you’re bleeding out! And I already told you that I thought you were safe there; I didn’t want to bring you into this mess.”

“Whatever.” Looking at Kuroo, skin dappled in sunlight, hair fluttering in the breeze, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. There was a strange sensation nestled against his heart, glowing with buttery warmth.

“Where are we going?” he asked. “Is there—are you taking us to your clan?”

He fought to keep the hope out of his voice, but Kuroo probably didn’t even notice. Closing his eyes, he raked his hands through his already wild hair, and when he looked back at Kenma, his face was painted with distress, like a child separated from his family at the market.

“Kuro?”

“I don’t know,” Kuroo said, casting his eyes at the ground. “I’m not sure if that’s possible.”

Kenma’s heart thudded, panic pushing to the forefront of his mind. “Is it because of me?”

“What?” Kuroo launched into an upright sitting position. “No! No, it’s nothing to do with you, Kenma, it’s because…”

“Because?” Kenma prompted, when Kuroo didn’t continue.

Kuroo sighed and rubbed two fingers along his forehead. “Few years ago, conflict between us and the nearby townspeople started up again. They wanted to use the forest we lived in for agricultural development, or something. We fought. It went on for years. And then…we lost.”

“I’m…sorry,” Kenma said, “Where did you go, then?”

“That’s just it,” Kuroo said, “Weeks ago—it must be two months, by now—we left our home in search of a new place to live. We’d send scouts ahead for two days, who’d come back and report to us what they say, so we could figure out the best way forward.”

“Like land surveyors,” Kenma said, thinking of the workers who would send land reports to the cartography workshop.

“Basically, yes,” Kuroo continued, “They sent me. I headed in this direction, and, well, you know what happens next.”

The realization was like a cold weight in Kenma’s gut. “So you don’t know where they are.”

Kuroo shook his head. “I could try to find them but it’d be practically impossible at this point. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.” His voice shook on the last words, and he rubbed his eyes furiously.

“Why didn’t they send anyone to check on you when you disappeared?” Kenma asked, thinking that wasn’t the behaviour of a loyal family for whom you’d lay your life down.

“They might have,” Kuroo said tiredly. “They might not have found anything. Or maybe they didn’t send anyone and moved on, just assuming I died and it wasn’t safe. I hope they did, I—I don’t want them risking themselves for me.”

But that would mean they had nowhere to go. It would mean that Kuroo lost his family forever. It would mean that Kenma’s chance for a new beginning was lost in the wind.

His mind raced. This couldn’t be the end of it.

“Would you know what sort of place they’d settle in?” Kenma asked. “If you knew the surrounding lands?”

“Uh…yes?” Kuroo’s brow creased. “But I _don’t_ know the surrounding lands.”

Kenma didn’t answer; he was too busy sifting through their bag of supplies, displacing wrinkled shirts and bundles of dried fruit to grab the squares of cotton and paper folded at the bottom. He pulled them out, and using the bag as a horribly uneven table, spread out the largest map he had for them to see.

“That’s…a map,” Kuroo said, shocked like he had never heard of one before. “How did you get that?”

“I’m a cartographer’s apprentice,” Kenma said, exasperated. _Was a cartographer’s apprentice._ “I had maps everywhere.”

“This is our village,” he explained, pointing to a tiny star at the center of the map. “Everything else—” He traced a circle along the map. “—is land within a four day wagon ride. There isn’t much detail, but—” He pointed at the southeast quadrant of the map. “This is pretty much all wilderness. Is there anywhere you think your group would have likely headed to?”

Kuroo peered over Kenma’s shoulder, his breath tickling the back of Kenma’s neck. He stared at the map as intensely as he would a wily enemy, frowning all the while.

“There,” he said finally, tapping on the spot with a finger.

“The lake bordering the eastern wildlands,” Kenma mused. “It’s not an easy journey, but if you’re experienced travelling in dangerous lands…”

“That’d be where they’re safest,” Kuroo said, eyes sparkling. “Kenma, if that’s not the place, I don’t know what is.”

“We’ll head there, then,” Kenma said, a resurgence of hope sending starbursts through his limbs. “It’s our best shot. We’ll find clues along the way.”

Kuroo nodded furiously and turned his head to face Kenma with shining eyes, so close that Kenma could count each of his eyelashes if he wanted to. Before Kenma could even blink, Kuroo enveloped him in his arms, hugging him as hard as he could without reinjuring himself.

“What would I do without you?” he murmured into Kenma’s ear, making goosebumps trail down his skin despite the warmth that enfolded him. “Thank you.”

Though there was a lump in Kenma’s throat he couldn’t quite swallow down, he forced himself to relax into the touch, letting his head balance on Kuroo’s shoulder. Kuroo holds him more firmly still, and Kenma blinks hard against his skin.

“Thank you,” Kuroo repeated, softer still. “I owe you so much.”

“Not really,” Kenma whispered back, unable to meet Kuroo’s gaze. “I…” He wasn’t able to finish, not with how hyperaware he was of his pulse thrumming in his throat.

Kuroo drew back, which forced Kenma to look at him properly, overwhelming as it was. He took Kenma’s hand, brushing over his knuckles with his thumbs. “I know I haven’t always been there for you—”

“Kuro, you don’t have to—"

“No, let me finish.” Kuroo cleared his throat and spoke in one rapid, breathless sentence, “I haven’t always been there for you and I kind of blew up your life, but it means everything to me that you’re here now, and I want to stay with you as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oh,” Kenma said, well aware that his face was burning.

“And if we find our clan, my family—I know they’ll love you and I can’t wait for you to meet them. Our way of life is difficult but I hope I can do right by you.”

“Kuro,” Kenma said, but there was nothing more he could do than pull Kuroo closer and let his tears trickle down his face onto Kuroo’s skin. Half of him felt like he could dissolve into thin air right there and then, and another half felt tensed like a wind-up toy, ready to react to the slightest touch.

But when Kuroo kissed him, a contentment like none other spread through his chest like a spoonful of honey, letting his muscles melt into liquid, letting a different type of electricity course through his veins.

†††

The next morning, after bundling up for a cold night under the tree, Kuroo and Kenma set off down the gently sloping valley that cut through the mountains, hand in hand through the crisp air and golden sunlight. They headed for the lake in the east, not knowing what exactly they would find at their destination, but hope burning strong in their hearts nonetheless. Never again did they feel the sting of loneliness, because though they mourned all that they had lost, they walked side-by-side, on the same path, towards the promise of loyalty, family, and love for the rest of their days. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave comments/kudos if you liked it, I'd love to know if there's anything you enjoyed so I can do it more often. You can contact me on tumblr @killjoycatlady or on twitter @killjoycatlady_
> 
> [CONTENT WARNINGS: Major character injury described fairly graphically, minor mentions of medical procedures, character sickness, significant bullying/harassment, past parental death due to sickness, past parental death due to war, and mildly abusive language.
> 
> If there are any other warnings I should add, please let me know in the tags.]


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